


Mullet Hair Care

by freakedelic



Category: Detective Comics (Comics)
Genre: Crack, Dick Grayson is Discowing, Gen, Innuendo, Mullet (Character), Mulletwing Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29227854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: Slade Wilson spins menacingly around on the salon chair, his cold blue eye staring out from beneath wet, limp hair. There’s a surprising amount of it, for a man of his age.“Hello, Grayson.”“You,” Dick hisses. He spins to face his nemesis, only to find a black apron pulled over his front. The stylist spins him back.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Mullet Hair Care

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for the mulletwing zine which is why it's not as on brand as you'd think, it was fun though! you can check the zine out [here](https://twitter.com/mulletwingzine)! i finally got permission to post it

“I’m Richard Grayson,” he says, smiling on instinct. “My appointment is”—he checks his watch— “in two minutes.” He tries to move to show off his mullet, but it flops limply. Dick is _very_ glad they have a blow dryer here.

The secretary directs him to a chair. “Our stylist will be here in a few minutes. Feel free to get comfortable, Mr. Grayson!”

Dick stares at himself, sopping wet in the mirror. He’s glad his new, upgraded Nightwing suit has been made waterproof—unfortunately there’s nothing he’s going to be able to do about the long V-shape that shows off his chest. He reminds himself to get his chest hair waxed. The people he fights can _not_ be allowed to see that.

It’s a few seconds later that he gets a glimpse of the customer just one station over from him—a large man, covered in a long black apron, sporting a very . . . familiar hairstyle.

Slade Wilson spins menacingly around on the salon chair, his cold blue eye staring out from beneath wet, limp hair. There’s a surprising amount of it, for a man of _his_ age.

“Hello, Grayson.”

“ _You_ ,” Dick hisses. He spins to face his nemesis, only to find a black apron pulled over his front. The stylist spins him back.

“I need you in front of the mirror, sweetie,” she says, sugary-sweet. Dick’s eyes glare to the side, fixed on Slade’s face. _Deathstroke_ , his nemesis since his Robin days. Robin days that were, technically, last month, but Dick thinks he’s moved on to a _new_ stage in his life. One where he can swear.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, _little bird_ ,” Slade purrs. He too is spun around in his salon chair to face the mirror, the tips of his hair being carefully snipped off. Dick can’t believe nobody else recognizes him, but he supposes that’s why Slade wears a full mask.

“What are you up to?” Dick hisses into the mirror. He’s faced with his own furious expression, unable to look at Slade as his hair is sprayed and then combed. Dick wonders if it _is_ a coincidence. Is Slade up to something? He turns ever so slightly to the stylist doing Slade’s hair, eyeing her. Is she a target?

Slade planning to get his chest waxed and then assassinating his stylist . . . a diabolical plan. Definitely something someone as evil as him would think of.

“I’m getting my hair cut,” Slade purrs. The stylist moves to his goatee. All Dick can see in the mirror now is his one slimy eye, planning evil things.

“You have such wonderful hair,” the stylist behind Dick says cheerfully. “How have you been keeping it so nice?”

“Well,” Dick preens, “I’ve been getting it washed a lot.” He thinks of Bludhaven’s constant rain. “And I’ve been sure to infuse it with plenty of iron.”

“Iron?”

Dick opens his mouth to say _, from the blood_ , but Slade snorts loudly.

“Kid, the key to good hair is _conditioner_. If you haven’t been conditioning your hair twice daily, it’s not going to last more than two or three decades.” He clicks his tongue.

Dick’s stylist stops snipping the ends of his hair to promote growth and help stop split ends. She leans over. “I think you signed up to get your chest waxed?”

“Absolutely,” Dick says. He starts to unbutton his shirt, revealing the treacherous hair growing back from when he got it waxed last week. How is he supposed to be able to wear his Discowing suit when his body keeps betraying him like this?

He feels a gust of wind across his face from where Slade rips the apron off of himself, standing up to his full height. Dick glares up at him as he walks over, noting the bit of white hair poking out over his shirt. It’s unbuttoned just _one_ button too much, Dick thinks critically.

“You’re not even waxing?” Dick raises an eyebrow.

Slade smirks. “I prefer to be the one _pouring_ the hot wax, Grayson.”

Dick makes a face at him. Suddenly, his bare chest seems like _way_ too much to show. Is Slade staring at his non-existent boobs?

The hot wax drizzles over his skin, plastering over his pectorals as Dick crosses his eyes so he can see. It globs all over his chest, slightly burning. Dick can feel it start to dry as he stares above him.

Another face peers over. This one is substantially greener than Dick remembers. He seems to recall hers as being a dark brown, not . . . neon. A large, threatening pair of scissors looms in his vision. They snip, once. Dick feels it jolt through his body and send his blood spinning.

“A mullet!”

Those scissors . . . want to cut him open.

He rolls, violently, to the side. Dick grunts as his ribs hit Slade’s boots. Those _have_ to be steel-toed. Of course.

The scissors snip in the air that he left behind. “No!” A furious voice cries out, agonized. “No! No, no, no! I will _have_ my prize!”

Slade says some very child-unfriendly things, the kinds of things Dick would’ve made fun of him for if he was Robin.

Dick scrambles across the floor, barely-dry wax smearing, Slade’s steel-toed combat boots stepping away and dodging the green—clad?

It’s body paint, he realizes. Neon green, put over every part of a _totally_ naked body. Not that Dick’s a prude. He just didn’t expect to get flashed by his stylist.

Slade looks less than happy. Dick has to take care of this, and fast. The man leaps at him again, mouth nearly frothing.

“I need it!” he yells. “I need it! I need it . . . it will _NOT_ escape me this time!”

The scissors snip. Dick’s wet hair streams behind him as he—

Runs for the bathroom.

No, not like that.

Nightwing is a _superhero_. He barely manages to nab the small piece he carries his costume in before he’s running for it. It’s a small, unisex one _._ His feet pound against the ground. Where did all the employees go?

A very loud screech follows him.

Dick runs harder. He fumbles for a second with the handle, throwing it open into a bathroom that smells of pungent cleaner. Dick bowls into it, taking only a few seconds to spin on his heel and _slam_ it closed.

The lock clicks. Dick sighs in relief—

Something moves behind him. He turns with a yell to see—Slade. The man towers over him, standing smugly in the suddenly too-small bathroom stall.

“Holy Batman!”

Slade looks at him, a brow raised. Dick glares back, daring him to mock his neutered swearing. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Same thing as you, I’d assume,” Slade says casually.

A pair of scissors slams through the door. Dick flinches. Slade doesn’t. Slade starts to pull pieces of his uniform out of a bag he’s procured from nowhere. In seconds, he’s pulling off his shirt and throwing it on the dubiously clean floor.

“Hey! Hey! Wait a second!”

“I will get in! I will come for you! I will shear you like sheep of the flock!” Neon green man screeches.

“What?” Slade says, his chest rippling with scar tissue. Dick glares.

“Turn around.”

Slade raises a brow.

“I’m changing here!” Dick insists. He glares pointedly.

Slade rolls his eye. “You wouldn’t last a day in the military, Grayson.”

Dick is very glad he isn’t in the military. He tries to strip down as fast as he can _while_ keeping an eye on Slade to make sure he doesn’t start pulling out his firearms, _while_ trying to avoid the screaming.

“You will not escape! You have nowhere to go!” The scissors slam into the door again. This time, there are grunts of effort as it wiggles and tries to pull itself out.

Dick digs his hands into the mostly dry wax on his chest through the paper. If he wants to get the tight spandex on, he needs to get this off. He pulls at the paper, ripping it all off in a satisfying _shhhhk_ and leaving redness behind.

Only a little hair. Dick admires his chest, runs a hand through his not-drying-fast-enough hair on his head, and starts to slip into the spandex. It’s a pulling game, one leg and then the other—

“Oh, for—”

Dick turns on instinct, just in time to see Slade pulling out a pistol.

“Oh, no! Oh, no, no, no!” Dick tries to run to stop him, but finds his spandex still bunched around his ankles. He’s forced to hop in front of the door, trying to ignore the ungodly screeching from behind it.

“This would solve all our problems,” Slade says. The only thing he’s wearing is a pair of white boxers as he aims the gun past Dick’s shoulder.

“You! Will not be killing anyone!” Dick hops angrily towards him. “I came here to get a haircut and a wax and I will _not_ have this end in murder!”

“It’s self-defense,” Slade says, staring down at him.

“I will have it! It will come to me!” More snipping of scissors. “I must complete my mission . . . it will be mine!”

“I will take care of this!” Dick insists. He reaches out a hand, pushing against Slade’s aiming arm. It doesn’t budge. “You can screw right off.”

“Fine.” Slade shrugs as if he never cared. “I’ll watch you get sheared like a sheep.”

Dick rolls his eyes. He keeps his eyes fixed on him as he continues to stretch his spandex up over himself. The lights in the bathroom are at least drying his hair as he brushes it out of the way. He has to momentarily contort to zip himself up from the back before staring at Slade, who’s still pulling on his orange and blue uniform.

“Bonuses of a one-piece suit,” he gloats.

“I feel it . . . I will have it in my hands!” The man screams outside the door. “I won’t let you get away with all that hair!”

“With . . . _what_?” Dick stares at the door. He wonders if he’s misread the situation.

In the split second he’s not looking, Slade has a gun in his hand again. Dick tries to grab at it, but Slade pushes past and kicks the door down with a _crash_.

Dick winces. It’s the hero who’s going to end up paying for that.

The man in neon body paint goes skittering back, his scissors snapping at Dick. “The coward comes back to fight!”

Slade steps back. Now that it seems like _Dick_ is the target, he doesn’t seem interested in helping. Typical.

Dick jumps on top of one of the salon chairs, crouching as it rolls towards the neon-green man. He makes a growling, hissing noise like a strangled snake and jumps straight at him.

Dick neatly ducks to the side. The man slams against his salon chair with an _oof_ , barely clinging to it as they start spinning in the opposite direction. It takes a few seconds for him to regain his bearings and lunge, but Dick leans off of the edge of the spinning chair—

Something cracks him in the head with a nasty sound. Dick’s head rings, reeling from the pain as he watches a green face and a gleaming pair of scissors rise in his vision. He braces himself for a humiliating, unheroic death, but all that happens is a fist digging into his hair.

“I will have it! My prize!” The neon man looks like he’s practically drooling. Up close, Dick recognizes him as the owner of the establishment? An old, rickety man that he would _never_ have assumed had this much fight in him. His hair is tugged, fingers running through his mullet almost reverently. “Your hair . . . will be mine!”

Dick feels insulted. He grew this hair himself, dammit. He’s not going to let some two-bit salon villain high on a Joker gas derivative take it away from him. His hand reaches out, grasping. Fingers close around a long, cool tube.

Dick jerks violently, sending them spinning. His pounding head resists. He ignores it. The scissors come down. Dick’s hand comes up. The blades cut cleanly through . . . a tube full of wet, white conditioner. It smears all over Dick’s face, coating him in the stuff.

“Nooo! The mullet!” screeches in his ear.

Another fist grabs his hair. Dick thinks his carefully cultivated mullet is done for before he finds himself being hoisted in the air, feet scrabbling and kicking. The scissors come down against his reinforced boots, but don’t penetrate. Dick has to be careful not to kick him in the face. He doesn’t want to accidentally kill the old man.

He manages to get to his feet on the floor, rubbing the stuff out of his eyes. Something clicks.

“No! Don’t shoot! He works here!” Dick runs towards the noise. “I swear, if you so much as fire _one_ —”

“Fine!” There’s a few moments of kerfuffle before Dick opens his eyes to see Slade strangulating the neon green man. It . . . could be worse, as he collapses to the ground, likely only to be out for the next minute or so. “You’re picky, Grayson.”

“I don’t condone murder,” Dick snips. He smooths the white conditioner off of his face and into his hair, which he thinks will have to be washed out again.

“Murder, self defense.” Slade shrugs. “What’s the difference?”  
“You,” Dick says, “are going to Blackgate.”

It’s a threat as empty as Slade’s eye socket.

“I,” Slade says, stabbing a finger at Dick’s chest, “just saved your mullet.”

Dick stares down at the finger poking at his waxed chest before glaring.

“Speaking of,” Slade says, crossing over to an undestroyed part of the salon, “I’m going to save it again.” He grabs something off of the store shelf and turns so Dick can see it.

“Conditioner?”

“Your mullet won’t last a decade, kid.” Slade shakes his head sorrowfully. “You need to feed it.”

“How much does it cost?”

“You just saved the store,” Slade says, deadpan. “You deserve some compensation.”

“Not how it works. Not that I would take hair advice from an old man in a pirate costume who doesn’t wax his pecs, anyways.”

“Older and wiser,” Slade counters. “With a better color scheme.”

Dick snorts. He turns to find the phone. The receptionist is starting to get up from behind her desk, staring around fitfully. He sighs before picking up the phone, starting to dial for the police.

“Well, I’ll be going,” Slade says.

“You can’t, I’m detaining you,” Dick says, starting to walk over. The curly train of the phone stretches out behind him.

Slade throws the tube of conditioner at his face and leaves.

“Jackass!” Dick yells after him.  
“Sir,” the man on the phone tells him, “this is the police station.”


End file.
